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The Secret Room
#EnigmaticHouseTales
My family has owned the old red-bricked colonial house for generations. My grandmother, Kate, and I lived there. The large house stood like a lone sentry on a green, sloping hill facing Lake Victoria.
I hated this place because of the cold breeze at night. Other rooms smelled of burnt pinewood and cypress.
As a kid, I wandered the entire house and played in every nook and crannie. There was a room that my grandmother forbade me to enter. I attempted to gain entry several times, but my stern grandmother barked at me like a rabid dog.
She fell sick and the doctor diagnosed her with breast cancer. Often, I drove her to the cancer wing at Mulago Hospital for chemotherapy sessions.
Several months later, her condition deteriorated. Her doctor called my father to his office. He informed him that my grandmother had two months to live. The malignant tumors had spread to her lower abdomen.
My grandmother had summoned me to the hospital. She cried when she saw me. And I cried too. She was both my world and my mother.
She pointed to her worn brown bag on the rusty hospital trolley. Her thin, bony hand popped into the bag and handed me a bulky envelope. The envelope contained her will. She whispered goodbye. She left me a large inheritance, stocks, a Viro key and the old house.
Three years later after graduation, I cleaned and renovated the old house. Down the long corridor, I inserted the key into the forbidden door. My heart roiled like an old generator.
I opened the door and entered the darkened room. The smell was musky. The room was filled with antique furniture and boxes. A large desk was at the centre. There were two identical brown leather hunchbacks.
Diaries and files were stacked on the shelves. My grandmother had written in them since 1943. Old newspaper cuttings and faded black and white photographs filled them.
Something struck me like a stray train.
In the photographs, my grandmother worked as a nurse at the King's palace. I stared at my beautiful grandmother and the late King holding hands.
I was shocked to learn that my grandmother was the secret lover of the King. Other photos showed a child being held between them.
As I browsed through them, I observed a young boy in various stages of education.
As the hard truth hit me, I felt warm butterflies. The young boy was my father. I slumped into a hunchback and stared into the dark void.
My father was a member of the royal family. He has never found out his real identity. He had no knowledge of his real father!
The secrets of the dairies captivated me. One diary mentioned that the queen had attempted to assassinate my grandmother when she learned of the affair.
The King had whisked my pregnant grandmother to exile. It dawned on me why she had locked this room. Was she paranoid? Or was she trying to protect the identity of her son?
There are things that cannot be explained. I am certain that my father will never know this secret. I won't divulge anything to him. The main reason my grandmother left me her estate and its dark secrets was because of this.
© Mwebe Morgan
My family has owned the old red-bricked colonial house for generations. My grandmother, Kate, and I lived there. The large house stood like a lone sentry on a green, sloping hill facing Lake Victoria.
I hated this place because of the cold breeze at night. Other rooms smelled of burnt pinewood and cypress.
As a kid, I wandered the entire house and played in every nook and crannie. There was a room that my grandmother forbade me to enter. I attempted to gain entry several times, but my stern grandmother barked at me like a rabid dog.
She fell sick and the doctor diagnosed her with breast cancer. Often, I drove her to the cancer wing at Mulago Hospital for chemotherapy sessions.
Several months later, her condition deteriorated. Her doctor called my father to his office. He informed him that my grandmother had two months to live. The malignant tumors had spread to her lower abdomen.
My grandmother had summoned me to the hospital. She cried when she saw me. And I cried too. She was both my world and my mother.
She pointed to her worn brown bag on the rusty hospital trolley. Her thin, bony hand popped into the bag and handed me a bulky envelope. The envelope contained her will. She whispered goodbye. She left me a large inheritance, stocks, a Viro key and the old house.
Three years later after graduation, I cleaned and renovated the old house. Down the long corridor, I inserted the key into the forbidden door. My heart roiled like an old generator.
I opened the door and entered the darkened room. The smell was musky. The room was filled with antique furniture and boxes. A large desk was at the centre. There were two identical brown leather hunchbacks.
Diaries and files were stacked on the shelves. My grandmother had written in them since 1943. Old newspaper cuttings and faded black and white photographs filled them.
Something struck me like a stray train.
In the photographs, my grandmother worked as a nurse at the King's palace. I stared at my beautiful grandmother and the late King holding hands.
I was shocked to learn that my grandmother was the secret lover of the King. Other photos showed a child being held between them.
As I browsed through them, I observed a young boy in various stages of education.
As the hard truth hit me, I felt warm butterflies. The young boy was my father. I slumped into a hunchback and stared into the dark void.
My father was a member of the royal family. He has never found out his real identity. He had no knowledge of his real father!
The secrets of the dairies captivated me. One diary mentioned that the queen had attempted to assassinate my grandmother when she learned of the affair.
The King had whisked my pregnant grandmother to exile. It dawned on me why she had locked this room. Was she paranoid? Or was she trying to protect the identity of her son?
There are things that cannot be explained. I am certain that my father will never know this secret. I won't divulge anything to him. The main reason my grandmother left me her estate and its dark secrets was because of this.
© Mwebe Morgan
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